


Ah, Mémoires.

by Photosynths (orphan_account)



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast
Genre: ?? is that the term, Angst, Comfort, Depression, F/M, Gen, Inner Dialogue, My First Work in This Fandom, One Shot, Sadness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:36:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Photosynths
Summary: Human again, Lumiere recounts his troubles aloud and alone.





	Ah, Mémoires.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction since I was a child! Hope you enjoy, please leave kudos/comments/criticisms behind for me! <3

There are some things no amount of loving caresses from a lover, sympathetic pats on the back from a friend, or days off from work given by a concerned employer, can solve.

"Here is a list of such things," whispered Lumiere, holding his head in warm hands as he gazed into the lit fire before him, alone with his thoughts.

 

_One._

Waking up; not from a nightmare, but into one. Feeling your flesh on fire until it's no longer flesh but something else. Something wrapping you in suffocating cold and unbearable heat at once. And that something being your own self. You being...something.

 

_Two._

Hearing others wake up into the same nightmare. The screams are terrible, but even worse are the reactions of those who cannot scream, who do not have a voice. Watching a chair tear through the hallway and slam itself at a window but being too bulky to fall through it and knowing it is someone, it was someone, but you may never know which someone they may be. By that, they very well could just be your average chair.

 

_Three._

**Where are your friends.**

It is not a question at this point but a demand from your own mind, given it is still there. Where is Cogsworth, where is Mrs. Potts, where is Chapeau--where is Plumette?! Anywhere, they could be anywhere, anyone, anything. Oh, mon dieu, they could be anything from the ottoman scratching the floors as it scurries past to the hatstand grappling at a wall to stand on its three legs.

 

_Four._

Not being able to hold your beloved, seeing the most beautiful soul confined to a wood-and-feather prison and knowing there is nothing you can do to console her no matter what you try. She is hysterical, eyes glassy not from tears but because they are literally glass. "Lumiere," she cries, "these wings are like an angel's, and so are unfit for a hell such as this," and you want to cry with her but you are denied the simplest display of empathy. You drip wax now, not tears.

 

_Five._

Cogsworth, Mrs. Potts, Chapeau, all of your most recognizable and closest friends have been identified. It is not the happy reunion no-one was expecting. Mrs. Potts and her dear son, little Chip, now lack arms and legs--they are almost fully confined to a cart. Chapeau is the coat-rack from earlier--he hobbles around, assisting anyone who he could help in this state; still the best footman the castle's ever seen. His habitual silence and stillness terrifies everyone until you see him scrabble to open a door.

And Cogsworth, the wound-up old major-domo, is now a mantel clock not much smaller than Lumiere. His gears turn and click, and it is uncomfortable to imagine what it must be like to hear that at all times of day.

 

_Six._

The Master. He is angry as he always is, but with a streak of something new, something that wasn't there before--or at least not fully realized. Now he can do more, now his anger is at himself, now he endangers himself along with the entire castle all at once. The West Wing is forbidden, and howls and screams tumble down the ivory stairs almost every hour. There are bloodstains on the carpet leading up those dark steps, and no one in the staff can bleed--no one in the castle can but one.

They are too weak to do anything. They always have been. The carpets have been cleaned.

 

_Seven._

A petal has fallen; the castle's stones have shifted, and the staff is panicked again. The rose has begun to wilt, and with it so has the staff and the walls. It is the slightest bit harder to move--they are stiffer now, less like flesh and bone than before. Some statues outside have cracked and stones in the walls have shifted. The Master bellows demands to fix the problems almost constantly and the servants cannot tell what he wants fixed; them, him, or the castle?

 

_Eight._

A candelabra's purpose is to brighten up a room. For Lumiere, this function is more than literal. The castle needs to stay lively, stay interested, stay as bright and happy and welcoming as Lumiere can force himself to be no matter how many times Cogsworth argues with him about occasional rendezvous and small celebrations. It takes a toll, but Lumiere refuses to snuff out his flame.

 

_Nine._

The musicians. Those talented, boisterous, absolutely infatuated musicians. The enchantment, no, the curse, did not spare anyone, and gave the two lovers a fate Lumiere and Plumette thank the stars they did not receive. The harpsichord, confined to minute sections of the lower floor, plays the most gorgeous selections of music that Lumiere recognizes as slices of duets.

The maestro was not made for solos, and neither was the dresser in the East Wing, whose voice and sobs traveled down the staircase and spread to almost every corner of the castle--almost all. They ring out in the West of the castle, inaudible to her dearest. Madame Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza. The two finest musicians in Europe, separated by wood and stone and brick and magic.

 

_Ten._

The rose's wilting has begun to have more potent effects. Plumette has become slightly heavier in the air despite the growth of bright, light feathers. Cogsworth, along with the click and turn of his gears, now ticks and tocks and on the hour goes silent, screws his eyes shut, and chimes.

It has grown increasingly easier for metal to bend back into the shape of a candelabra when one is inattentive; which has been happening much too often these days.

 

_Eleven._

The castle is falling asleep. Games and romance and song can only entertain the withering minds of the staff-turned-objects for so long until they return to their shelves, hooks, and cupboards, doing the actions their bodies and habits demand of them at minimum.

As Cogsworth had put it, "They need something to do--anything to scrape more consciousness out of them," as he began to demand the airing out of sheets from guest rooms left undisturbed for...how long, now? It has been forgotten. So much has.

 

_Twelve._

Somewhere, a mantel clock chimes midnight. Lumiere has taken to standing atop a table in the foyer so that he may look out the window at the snow and so that he is out of the way should he fall asleep.

Slumber is something one would not expect objects to do, when in fact it is the only thing they are capable of. Lumiere fights it, of course, but sometimes one's flame must go out--just for a bit. It is so easy to slip his arms into a "U" now, so easy to let plumes of smoke billow for but just a moment...

...somewhere, a mantel clock chimes. It is 11 o'clock. It is still dark outside. Lumiere swears to himself that he will not rest again.

 

_Thirteen._

The girl has come, she has opened the Master's heart, and she has gone. The last few rose petals cling to the stem as the staff clings to life. Not just to life, but to existence. Not a soul in the castle, if anyone is still in possession of one, knows what happens once they all fade away.

...What lies in store for a candelabra? Does he--does it stand in line at the pearly gates? Do the "pearly gates" exist?

Certainly not. No benevolent god could allow this. Do you stand and wait to be picked up again and used as the object you've become? Is there an afterlife?

Of course, he would never ask anyone such questions. Perhaps if they have faith, if they have hope, if they cling to the love for each other they've got they could all stand on this earth a little longer.

 

_Fourteen._

The End. It is...over. The girl does not love the Master.

 

Plumette. His radiant, divine, precious Plumette. She is no longer here. She is nowhere to be found. The only thing that indicated the former presence of the gorgeous maid is a feather duster. He has held her, no, it, until he is forced to straighten up, and she--it is an object to be put down.

The Madame has turned to wood and gold trim; the only thing inhabiting the dresser is a collection of old clothes.

The Maestro has choked out the very last solo he was forced to play at he castle. The melody still rings in the air, but it is getting harder to hear by the second until it is gone.

Ms. Potts has frozen on her cart, calling for sweet little Chip. Her last words are too late for her son, who calls back to the teapot where his mother had been resting.

Chapeau has completed one more delivery, one more service. Not a case to a room or a new servant to the major-domo, but a young boy to his mother. And thus, he leans backwards, more silent and still and stiff than he's ever held himself. He is gone.

Cogsworth is as collected as he can muster himself to be, of course. However, this is one of the few times that he actively attempts to disobey what compels him, to fight back.

 

...Then Cogsworth disappears, leaving behind a small wooden mantel clock.

A few last words are spoken that would mean the world to Lumiere if he was still able to feel. A spark of his fighting spirit flickers before being suffocated, and whispers through lips that do not move.

"The honor...was mine."

 

_Fifteen._

The first shaking breath. It is hungry. It burns, and is the best and worst thing to take in.

There is confusion. There is the return of emotion. There are the pins, the needles, the warmth of flesh.

There is love. There is hate. There is relief. There is terror. Every emotion that went even the slightest bit untapped slams through your brain.

And there is cloth on flesh and flesh on muscle and muscle on bone and bone on heart and heart on soul and you are complete and you are alive for the first time in years.

 

_Sixteen._

The return of the curse for your friends--even if only in dreams, in nightmares, in the darkest hours, it is still here. It clings to the back of the staffs' minds like the cobwebs that gathered in the corners of the castle under the enchantment.

Plumette shudders and weeps softly in the night, and wakes up grabbing at her legs and scraping at them to stay. Some nights she explains that she feels like she's plummeting down from the air at a polished floor that she never hits.

Ms. Potts has taken to staying up just the slightest bit longer, lingering in the kitchen as if she still slept there. She stares at the cupboard, caffeinated tea in hand for hours on end. If anyone walks in on her, she simply tells them that her old age keeps her awake and ushers them back to bed with some milk and a biscuit.

Cogsworth can be found pacing the hallways on occasion. His feet no longer make a clacking sound against the floors or else he'd wake the entire castle as he treks the entire length of the building. He remarks that a disembodied ticking keeps him awake. If ever asked "Do you know what time it is?!" he'd have the exact second ready in his driest voice.

Chapeau finds himself at the doorway in the early morning, arms curled, ready to take coats and hats that never come. He wakes up, shakes himself off, and takes long strides back to his own chamber. He mentions this to no one.

 

_Seventeen._

"Human again" is harder than expected. Remembering to eat, to drink, to sleep, is proving to be harder than the jobs they've been doing all these years.

Some servants fall asleep at their dusting, slumped against tables or leaning on the stove because they simply forgot that they need to sleep through the night.

Plumette has fallen frail on occasion and must be reminded to attend meals, often being promised a show by her love with her dinner just to ensure that she shows.

Their new, no, old, bodies are warm and soft and strange and almost everyone has fallen out of practice with them. God knows how long it will take them to get back to being 'themselves.'

 

 

There is a gruff chuckle. "Ah, mémoires," says a tired, familiar voice with ghastly pronunciation of the French language...but it feels like it was an attempt to lighten the mood.

Lumiere continues to sit, elbows resting on his knees as sweat glistens on his forehead. His head remains in his hands but his brown eyes flit to the doorway.

It is Cogsworth.

His hand grips the doorframe, wide eyes sympathetic.

He must've been listening--must have caught Lumiere talking to himself in the dead of night while on one of his walks.

"Yes...yes, I know," replied Lumiere. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then a presence beside him on the faded velvet couch.

"Healing from these sorts of things," Cogsworth, murmured in a tired voice, "always does take time."

Somewhere, a mantel clock chimes midnight.

Lumiere stirs, but only a little. He is too tired to keep up a cheerful façade, especially at this hour--and besides, Cogsworth now knows his troubles. He puts an arm around his old friend, happy to not worry about the fire hazard any longer.

"You are right about that, _mon ami._ "


End file.
